


No Promises

by WolfWarrioress



Series: No Promises [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfWarrioress/pseuds/WolfWarrioress
Summary: "Promises, promises," haughty Verna sneers, looking far too smug.Daz shoots her a furious glare, until the Warlock rolls her eyes and walks away. Then he sighs, long and deep, his shoulders slump and he drops his face into his palm. He doesn't see her watching him desperately."I'm sorry, Ankara, I really am," he finally admits, and her heart breaks. "To be honest...we're immortal. We really shouldn't make promises. Living so long, we have no idea if we will actually be able to keep them. So many things could change over the course of our lives."No promises. It's the last lesson Daz teaches her. It's a lesson she will never forget. A mantra she clings to.Daz has taught her many things over the past two decades: how to breathe while sniping, how to track, a few phrases of eliksni, hacking tips, how to use a grenade to flush an enemy from cover, Ghost maintenance, how to read the weather. He taught her to survive. She clings to those lessons all through her life. Teaches them to her own students.(It meant that when he finally died his final death, she forgave him enough to lead the fireteam to retrieve their bodies.)
Relationships: Female Guardian/Male Guardian (Destiny), Ghost/Guardian (Destiny), Guardian/Guardian (Destiny), Guardian/Zavala (Destiny)
Series: No Promises [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991296
Kudos: 5





	No Promises

_200 Years Later_

"Long day?"

The voice is feminine, melodic and quiet with very little emotion in it, and familiar enough that Zavala immediately raises his head from where he didn't even realize he had slumped over the Vanguard table to rub his neck with one hand.

The time is very late, and so he's the only Vanguard still present in the Tower. The entire room is deserted, even, except for the female Awoken Guardian standing halfway along the table between himself and Andal's usual post, her armor, sans helmet, still covered in Venusian dust and the scent of ozone clinging to her suggesting she came straight here from the hanger. Her hair, very pale blonde and cut short, is rather flattened to her skull, no doubt from the pressure of her helmet. Her Ghost, colored bright teal with two black stripes on each side fin, floats patiently over her right shoulder, and one hand rests gently on the table.

"Ankara," he greets the other Titan, with genuine warmth in his voice. Even though she always returns his calls and answers text messages promptly, it's very different talking face to face than it is over comms, and it's been weeks since he saw her last.

Despite himself, despite the events of today, seeing her does raise his spirits as well. But only a little, as he looks back down at the reports on the table: three fireteams confirmed killed on Mars today, and one terrible Crucible accident that really hits him hard. With a deep sigh he toggles the screen of his tablet off and straightens up fully, rolling his thick shoulders. It does little to relieve the knots in them.

"That bad, hm?" she asks, but her voice is quiet and soothing, sympathetic versus attempting humor. Retracting her hand, she takes a few steps closer to him. "Have you eaten?"

There's a small war inside him, before he answers. That always seems to happen when Ankara is around. He shouldn't show weakness, not in front of one of his Titans. He has to be the embodiment of the wall, their morale, their steady rock.

But, Traveler, he's _tired_. And he is hungry. And Ankara is one of his most reliable Titans, and perhaps even a friend now. He'd like to call her a friend. And she's a breath of fresh air when the Tower becomes stuffy. Something stirs in his chest, in that box he thought he'd firmly closed forever when the title of _Vanguard_ landed on his shoulders. He cannot show favoritism. His only priority must be the City. He pushes the lid more firmly closed.

"No," he answers honestly, deep voice bleeding fatigue and resignation. There's no one else around to see him drop the title and load of Vanguard for awhile anyway, and he knows Ankara will not judge him and it is a relief. "Any chance your report can be delivered over some food?"

"Yes," she nods in agreement, stepping to one side and gesturing with a hand to let him lead the way.

Something about her quiet, melodic voice—she may rarely raise her voice but you can never drown her out—is soothing to his nerves, turns her reports into stories.

They walk out of the Vanguard room, across the open Tower courtyard, and take an elevator down a few levels. There's a few diners and cafeterias in the Tower, but only one diner stays open this late—unattended save one frame in the back, it always has some sort of food: sandwiches, a simmering stew or soup, and drinks, caffeinated or not take your pick—for those working late or long shifts.

As they walk, he recalls why he was worried about her. Pausing, he lifts a hand to set it on her shoulder. She stops walking when he does, half turning to look at him in curiosity.

"I'm sorry to hear about your former fireteam," he says, voice rumbling low with sympathy. The report that her two former fireteam mates had died their final deaths on Io had crossed his desk two days ago, and he had of course passed that information along to her. Her eyes crinkle with sadness at the corners, but her face slips into a neutral expression. If he hadn't known her so long he wouldn't have even noticed it.

She merely nods at him. "As am I." She hesitates, as if steeling herself for a fight. "I'm going to Io to retrieve Daz and Verna's remains in the morning," she states it firmly, as if she expects an argument.

Zavala frowns at her, but he's seen that determined look on enough Guardian's faces to know she won't be deterred. "Not alone," he says, just as firmly. She hesitates, tilts her head as she considers it, then nods once. "I will ask Ikora and Andal in the morning if they have anyone," he finishes with a nod of his own.

Ankara does not express very many emotions at all. She never has. She keeps to herself, taking the Titan motto to _Be the Wall_ to heart and only those who know her very well can see her reactions. It is the most defining thing about her, the thing that still haunts him about the day they first met, when Ankara walked up to him, face pale like she'd seen a ghost, and met his gaze with the most lost, _numb_ expression he had ever seen in his life.

Sometimes he wondered if she ever had stopped to breathe or settled into her new life, started to feel things again. She's survived, of course, slowly advancing meticulously through Guardian training and ranks, but she's never _thrived_ , never really formed bonds with other Guardians like most did. She is not the kind to throw herself off the edge of the Tower just because _her Ghost would bring her back_. She didn't even bother to keep an apartment in the Tower since she preferred to sleep either in her jumpship or be out-of-Tower entirely.

He never found out exactly what happened, that caused her to split from the Hunter and Warlock who were her first official fireteam, two centuries ago now. Considering that Daz and Verna ran doubles together in the Crucible for years following but Ankara had largely vanished to patrol Venus—her favorite planet—he has a suspicion that harsh words had been spoken. Not that it was any of his business, but he knew how close the bonds between Fireteams could get, and making sure his Titans were fighting fit was his responsibility, he reasons.

She turns her head to look at his hand still resting on her shoulder, drawing them both back to reality. Suddenly realizing that he had initiated the touch, something he always resolved not to do, Zavala quickly removed his hand and took a minute step back.

"What news from Venus?" he asks, moving the conversation back to it's original topic, turning to keep walking, barely noticing out of the corner of his eye how she rolled that shoulder before following him. He resists the urge to brush their minds together out of curiosity—that is an intimacy that is not appropriate given their current standing. And he hates himself for how strongly he wants to.

A moment later, she's striding beside him again, updating him succinctly on her patrols and recons.

They arrive at the deserted diner and don't talk as they select what food and drinks they want and arrange themselves at a table. A large table, as two Titans require. Ankara's head was only as tall as his shoulder, but she was wide and solid in her own right.

Then she continues to talk, telling him everything she's seen the Vex do and everything she's read in the Archives. He asks a few pointed questions of interesting things and makes notes on his tablet, but it's half hearted because he knows her own meticulous report is doubtlessly waiting in his inbox. It was almost a relaxing conversation and he found himself leaning back in his seat.

"I heard about that Titan in the Crucible," she says suddenly, but what really makes him pause is how she leans forward and sets her hand on his forearm. His eyes follow the movement, staring at her hand, at the slender fingers curling over his thick arm, sending gooseflesh across his skin. "Overheard some techs talking about it in the hanger. That's not your fault."

"It's always my fault," he says quietly, lifting his own right hand to set it over the top of hers. Her skin is so warm, and smooth. Has it really been so long since he last touched a woman, he wonders at his response. Beautiful Ankara, who keeps to herself, who he can't help but stare at whenever she walks away from him. He looks back up at her in time to catch the surprise flicker across her face—at his motion, or in realization that she'd touched him first?

She straightens and pulls her hand back, sliding out from under his, hiding both of hers under the table. There's a sudden tension in her shoulders that he has never seen before, and it raises his suspicions. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way—" she started, the most flustered he has ever seen her, face actually flushing purple. She freezes, mouth working slightly as if she can't decide what to say. Then she closes it and swallows.

She rises to her feet and changes the subject. "It's late, I should go rest," she says.

"Good night, Commander," Ankara says, and before he can stop her—does he want to stop her? He shouldn't, he knows that—her Ghost transmats her before he's fully straightened upright.

"What if I was hoping you did," he murmurs before rising himself, good mood gone.


End file.
